


Licence to Kiss

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bondlock, Crack Treated Seriously, Fandom Trumps Hate, First Kiss, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Sharing a Bed, a lot of james bond jokes, rated T but lots of dick jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: Sherlock loves John, and John loves... James Bond. He only made Sherlock watch every single film. Tedious. And now John's birthday is coming up. Sherlock can't tell him how he feels, but he can organise an amazing gift: John's very own spy adventure. Sherlock begs Mycroft for a real case with some extra gadgets. And perhaps some actors pretending to be criminals. What could possibly go wrong?Set right after ASIB.





	1. The spy who loved tea

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fandom Trumps Hate Challenge 2018. My bidder [gobacktobakerstreet](http://gobacktobakerstreet.tumblr.com/) gave me an absolutely brilliant prompt and then was kind enough to Britpick and beta this work. It was also beta'd first by the amazing [88thparallel](http://88thparallel.tumblr.com/), who I cannot thank enough for her support.

_Deng deng deng deng - deng deng - deng deng deng deng -_

“Sherlock?” John hisses.

“Hm?”

_Toodoo toodoooooo tododo_

“Did you change my bloody ringtone to the James Bond theme?”

“Perhaps.”

John turns the phone off hastily.

“In my defense,” Sherlock says. “I did assume you’d put your phone on silent during a hide-out.”

Shots start whizzing past their heads. _Shit. Shit shit shit_ , Sherlock thinks. _This is_ so _not the way it was supposed to be._

 

\---

 

**One week earlier**

 

“It’s John’s birthday. Next Sunday.”

Sherlock sips his tea and stares at the chess board in front of him.

“I deduced it,” Sherlock adds.

“You stole his birth certificate,” Mycroft says. “Knight. H4 to G6.”

Sherlock moves the piece for him. They’re sitting in 221B, and Mycroft has agreed to play chess with him, blindfolded. “To level the playing field,” he’d said. Smug bastard. Having to actually look at his brother - that’s the true player’s handicap.

“Make the move, Sherlock.”

“Bishop. D7 to C6.”

“I meant the game you’re playing with me,” Mycroft says.

“I’d like to organise a case for him,” Sherlock says. “As a gift.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows underneath the blindfold. Probably to secretly glance at the board while the cloth moves. Sherlock smiles.

“John absolutely adores James Bond, as you are likely aware.”

“The answer is no. Pawn. G4 to G5.”

“He’s made me watch all the films during those tedious Bond nights,” he continues. “Even _Die Another Day_. And that octopus one.”

“You’re lucky. It could have been much worse. I read on Molly Hooper’s blog that she made Moriarty watch _Glee_.”

Sherlock falls silent. Moriarty is precisely the reason why he wants to organise an epic birthday gift - John’s very own Bond case, his dream come true. Because at the pool, he’d been… stunning. John had jumped on Moriarty’s back, while wearing that semtex vest.

“Queen. D8 to D5.”

John had jumped on Moriarty, been ready to die to protect him, and at that exact moment, Sherlock knew.

Mycroft frowns. “Are you sure?”

He is utterly and madly in love with John Watson.

“Of course,” Sherlock says.

And if John Watson loves James Bond, Sherlock will get him what he loves.

“Just find me an easy case. A two at most. We’ll make it more elaborate than it has to be. A real puzzle for him, an action-adventure. Make him think he’s tackling a case for MI6. You know you owe me after Irene Adler, Mycroft. You and the Queen.”

“Rook to D5. I slay your queen, Sherlock.”

“No you don’t,” Sherlock says. “There’s a pawn in the rook’s way.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitches in anger, and he lifts his blindfold. He motions to the chess board. “The way is not blocked, it’s right there.”

“I knew you’d peek under your blindfold, Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “You’re really the worst at playing blindfolded. So I’ve slightly altered some of the moves you’ve made this entire game. The pawns are not where you think they are. And now you’ve touched your rook. Where will you take it? It’s not even in that line. Go back in your mind, Mycroft. Where’s your rook? Do you see how you’ve lost this game? Do you see my next move? There’s _nothing_ you can do. Check. Bloody. Mate.”

Mycroft leans back. Sherlock smiles broadly, and takes another sip of tea. It’s not even cold yet. The game was on, and off, quite fast.

“A two,” Mycroft mumbles, getting up to leave. “The government is not your birthday party planner, Sherlock.”

“And I’m not asking for cake and clowns, brother,” Sherlock says as Mycroft walks out the door. “Though chocolate is fine, thank you.”

 

***

 

A few hours later, while John is on the sofa watching television and Sherlock is staring down his microscope, his phone pings.

 

 _I have located a two.  
_ _MH_

 

Sherlock smiles.

 

 _An insignificant arms dealer. We’ve had our eye on him for a while. I suppose you and Doctor Watson could wrap this one up. If you must.  
_ _MH_

 

 _Is he abroad? 007 always travels.  
_ _SH_

 

 _The government is not your personal travel agency.  
_ _MH_

 

Sherlock waits patiently, and stares at John. He can see him perfectly from the kitchen, wrapped up under a blanket, laughing at an idiotic comedy. He almost regrets that their Bond nights are over, now. He doesn’t get invited to watch films with John anymore.

His phone pings again.

 

 _He’s in Amsterdam. I’ll send you the details.  
_ _MH_

 

Not nearly exotic enough, Sherlock thinks. But he has likely pushed his luck already with Mycroft.

 

 _And I’ll send YOU the details.  
_ _SH_

 

The reply is swift.

 

 _What on earth are you talking about?  
_ _MH_

 

 _I have a list. We need to make this case as Bond as possible.  
_ _SH_

 

 _Don’t make me regret this.  
_ _MH_

 

 _Sherlock?  
_ _MH_

 

***

 

The following Saturday, Sherlock and John arrive outside Mycroft’s office. It’s the sixth of July, one day before John’s birthday. Sherlock smiles happily to himself. John doesn’t suspect a thing - he probably assumes Sherlock doesn’t do celebrations. Rightfully so. Except, this is John. And he deserves the best.

“What can I do you for today?” asks a gorgeous, blonde secretary with a white, deep-cut blouse.

Sherlock sniffs indignantly. She must be new here.

“We’re here to see Mycroft Holmes,” John says. “He… summoned us.”

Right: he’d sent a black car with tinted windows, and Adele’s _Skyfall_ playing on the radio. Very subtle.

“And your name is…” the model-like woman asks with a breathy voice.

John clears his throat. “Watson. John Watson,” he says. “And this is Sherlock Holmes. You know. _Holmes_. Ring a bell?”

“Only alarm bells,” Sherlock scoffs.

“John Watson, right,” she smiles, ignoring Sherlock. “I’ve read your blog.”

John bites his bottom lip. “You have?”

Is he _blushing_?

“Yes,” she says. “You’ve got a real writing skill. In your… fingers.”

When she puffs her chest like she’s Scarlett Johansson or something, Sherlock stiffens.

Hopefully, John doesn’t.

Sherlock texts Mycroft.

 

 _This was not part of the deal.  
_ _SH_

 

 _Ping_ , he hears from inside the office close-by. Then, a scuffle. Someone hastily putting his phone on vibrate.

 

 _You asked for Bond.  
_ _MH_

 

 _Yes, Bond. Not Blonde.  
_ _SH_

 

 _I’m just giving you a run for your Moneypenny.  
_ _MH_

 

 _Don’t appall me with puns, Mycroft.  
_ _SH_

 

 _Full. Bond. Experience. Exactly what you asked for.  
_ _MH_

 

“Mr Holmes is ready for you now,” the secretary says. She pushes a button and with a buzz, the door to his office opens.

When the door closes behind them, and the secretary is out of earshot, John wastes no time.

“What’s all this about, Mycroft?”

Mycroft is seated in his large leather chair with his back to them, and slowly whirls it around, hands folded. Sherlock tries not to roll his eyes. Mycroft needs to stop channeling Bond villains, and perhaps focus on Judi Dench. Much more up his street.

Mycroft has obscured his nameplate so that now, it only reads M.

Oh, Mycroft.

“The Commonwealth needs your help,” Mycroft says.

John lifts his eyebrows in surprise, and looks briefly at Sherlock.

“There’s a dangerous arms dealer on the loose, and only you can catch him, John Watson. And Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why us?” John asks incredulously.

“It’s July, most of my agents are on vacation with their families. You know how it is. School holidays. Dreadfully boring.”

Sherlock coughs briefly.

“And this requires your specific skillset. Ex-military. Doctor. You’d be fine getting shot at, as well as tending to bullet wounds,” Mycroft says.

Another cough - more like a choke, now.

“Thanks... I suppose,” John says, shifting on his feet. He has taken a more military stance, Sherlock notices with some pride.

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock says. A bit embarrassing, flirting in front of his brother. This is flirting, isn’t it? Sherlock frowns to himself.

Mycroft stands up, grabs a file from his desk and moves to the left wall. There, he opens the large cupboard and pushes a hidden button. The back of it starts shifting, revealing a hidden doorway.

“Follow me,” Mycroft says, as he steps into the cupboard.

John sucks in a breath, and exchanges a stunned look with Sherlock.

“Narnia,” Sherlock mouths.

Sherlock and John tread behind Mycroft as he descends a staircase, crosses a large hallway, and reaches a lift. The sensor scans his face and retina before taking them even deeper down into the government facility.

“If it doesn’t recognise you, it self-destructs,” Mycroft says. “With you inside.”

When the lift door opens, they enter a large room full of people. They’re dressed as scientists, straight out of old time films, and are working on different projects. Next to them, a man disappears inside a sofa. A little further, someone shoots some sort of rocket from a leg cast.

John is staring in awe.

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, eyes bulging. This is impressive. He must have pulled a lot of strings to get them down here.

“This is normally the canteen,” Mycroft whispers in Sherlock’s ear.

An elderly gentleman with round glasses joins them and shakes Mycroft’s hand.

“This is Q,” Mycroft says.

“The… Quartermaster?” John says. “What, like in a James Bond film?”

“James Bond is practically a documentary,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft scoffs. “More like an illegal download.”

“You must be John Watson and Sherlock Holmes,” the actor playing Q says. “I’m here to give you a technical briefing on your mission.”

John shakes his head open-mouthed. It makes Sherlock melt a little.

Q glances at Mycroft. “Have they been assigned their codenames yet?”

“No, they haven’t.”

“Is it…” John starts. He’s clearly suppressing his excitement with military strength. “I mean. It’s not 007 or something, right?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Everybody wants that codename. I’m afraid we reserve that number for our employee of the month.”

He pauses.

“John, you are 009. Sherlock, you’re 0028. Sorry, it was the next available one.”

Sherlock glares at him, but Mycroft pays him no mind and turns to Q. “What have you got for us, old boy?”

Q reaches into his breast pocket and hands John a pen, adorned with the British flag.

“Oh! I know exactly what that is,” John says, eyes gleaming like a little boy’s. Sherlock feels a pang of regret. He wishes John looked at his pen like that.

Well, _pen_.

“Stationery? Nice deduction, John,” Sherlock says.

“No, no, you unscrew the top, put it on the end, turn, and bang!” John holds the pen very carefully.

“Let’s leave the top alone for now,” Sherlock mumbles.

Next to them, a scientist pours water on an umbrella, which immediately closes quite violently. The ends have sharp pins on them, entrapping whoever would be underneath it. They all stare at it.

“I think I prefer Mycroft’s sword gun umbrella,” Sherlock says.

“That’s a level 6 secret, Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

“It’s your party trick!”

“That was _one_ Christmas!”

Mycroft begrudgingly leads them a little further, to a small table with a suitcase on it. Q opens it.

“I’ve prepared this for your travels, it’s full of handy gadgets,” Q says. “There’s a pair of glasses that can make its own case explode from a distance. There’s explosive toothpaste. There’s a towel that absorbs bloodstains to hide evidence. Well. You’ll see. I’ve included a handy instruction manual to go with the items.”

John touches the edges of the suitcase with shaking hands, then quickly hides them in his pockets. He breathes out unsteadily.

Sherlock beams at him. John’s clearly so happy. This will be the best birthday ever: guns, explosions, chases, only minor life endangerment. Perfect.

Mycroft hands John a gun. “This, Doctor Watson, is a Walther P99 semi-automatic pistol.”

John caresses it, mouth slightly open.

“You’ve got a licence to kill, now,” Mycroft says, looking him in the eye intensely.

“John is always killing it,” Sherlock says.

John chuckles, and turns to Mycroft. “Oh by the way, what’s our target’s name?”

Sherlock winks at Mycroft. He’s already been sent the target’s file. It should be easy enough. A small fish, some criminal loser tucked away in Amsterdam, smoking joints, wearing clogs, dealing out guns every now and then. He can do this in his sleep. On the way there, Mycroft will organise a scuffle with some actors, and in Amsterdam they’ll quickly wrap the case and then stay for another week to cruise. The canals.

“His name?” Mycroft asks. He glances at the file in his hand. “Sebastian Moran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it! 
> 
> I believe nobody should ever feel obligated to leave comments - you do you, dear readers. If you feel too much anxiety, don't know what to say, or hated this work, don't say anything, it's fine. However, I mean, do I live and breathe for kudos and comments? Umm, yes, I do ;)


	2. Shy fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Bond case' really gets started, it's glorious and fun, and John can't believe his luck. Or are the cards stacked against them?

“Every spy needs a... satisfying ride,” Mycroft’s secretary says as she leads Sherlock and John to the agency’s garage.

John excitedly follows. _Jesus christ_. He still can’t believe what’s happening. Only a few hours ago he was just reading the newspaper and sipping some milky tea, expecting a rather boring weekend. Sure, it was his birthday tomorrow, and maybe he’d take Sherlock to Angelo’s to celebrate, maybe not. He was sure Sherlock had no idea, anyway, and he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But then, this Saturday morning, one of Mycroft’s cars stopped outside 221B. And John never could have anticipated… this. Working as an actual secret agent? Is he dreaming?

He focuses on the reality in front of him. The secretary’s skirt is so tight that John’s pretty sure a student could do maths homework on those curves.

He moves the gadget suitcase to the front of his trousers. Just in case. Or _against_ case.

“Don’t you have some phone calls to transfer to Mycroft’s office?” Sherlock asks, annoyed. “Or ‘M’, as he apparently insists on being called during this mission.”

The woman gives a tight-lipped smile.

“You’re about to meet your car. How good are you with a stick, Doctor Watson?” she asks.

Is she _flirting_ with him? John blinks. Ever since Jeanette dumped him on Christmas Eve, he hasn’t dated anyone. Which now makes… about seven months. Wow. He’d never noticed, being so caught up in solving cases with Sherlock. Most of his nights he was occupied anyway - trying to make Sherlock watch proper films.

They stopped doing that. Sherlock was rolling his eyes at the films so much, John suspected he didn’t enjoy it very much. John just didn’t want to force it on him, you know? So what if the man enjoyed staring down his microscope more?

That secretary _is_ attractive, John supposes. He looks her up and down. Not his usual type though.

Meanwhile, Sherlock reaches into his Belstaff and puts the deerstalker hat on his curls, but John gets distracted when the garage door slowly rises.

“Kidding, it’s an Aston Martin DB10,” the secretary smiles as the luxury vehicle is revealed.

Holy shit. John eyes the classic, shiny grey, two-door Bond car. He walks around it, eyes wide.

“V8-engine, 0 to 100 in 4.3 seconds, bespoke wheels,” John breathes. “She’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Yes, this’ll definitely not draw any attention to our secret mission,” Sherlock says.

John throws him a look, but is relieved to see Sherlock smiling at the corners of his mouth. He, too, is enjoying this. He just won’t admit to it because it’s Mycroft’s mission. It’s always a competition between those two, isn’t it?

The secretary hands John the car keys, and it feels like accepting the crown of a faraway country. Carefully, he weighs the keys in his hands. It’s been a while since he’s driven a car. He doesn’t need one, living in London.

And this is not _just_ a car.  

He glances at Sherlock, who stands stock still, staring at the Aston Martin.

John gathers his courage and walks to one of the doors. “You ready, agent 0028?” he asks, opening it.

Sherlock turns up his coat collar and takes a seat next to him. “Let’s go, 009,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

John starts the engine, and music starts playing. _Writing’s on the Wall_ , by Sam Smith. John scoffs. Pretty dramatic, isn’t it? He pushes a button on the car radio. _Boum_ , by Charles Trenet. Not in the mood for that. He pushes again. Ah, finally. Some Grace Jones. Nice.

He puts his foot softly on the gas, and it’s… it’s pure sex. He pulls onto the road, leaving the waving secretary behind without a second glance. Driving this beautiful vehicle feels like sliding a sharp knife into a sweet pie. It’s smooth, it’s manly, it’s...

“Wait, my Apple Maps hasn’t loaded yet,” Sherlock says, fumbling with his phone.

“Damn it,” John says. “I told you to download the Google Maps app.”

 

***

 

Of course. Of course it’s a casino. John shakes his head in disbelief. The first place where they’re supposed to extract information on the target, is the Les Ambassadeurs Casino near Hyde Park: one of London’s fanciest gambling halls.

John glances at Sherlock, who removes his deerstalker and smooths his curls. Of course he’ll fit right in, posh boy. John looks down at his own, very middle class, very battle-wounded body. Maybe he can go undercover as kitchen help?

“We’ll need to change, of course,” Sherlock says as John pulls into the Mayfair underground parking nearby.

The detective reaches underneath the dashboard and extracts two packets.

“Are those… vacuum sealed suits?”

“Well, there isn’t exactly much room inside an Aston Martin, _John_.”

Sherlock attacks the vacuum seals with his teeth while John parks.

“We’ll have to change inside the car, John,” Sherlock slurs with plastic in his mouth. “To remain inconssssspicuous.”

Luckily, there aren’t many people in the garage around 11am on a Saturday. Still, they can’t very well exit a bloody Aston Martin and change from Marks and Sparks to bloody Vivienne Westwood.

Sherlock starts unbuttoning his shirt, and John stares at him. “Couldn’t we have changed, you know, back at the office?” he whispers.

“Why are you whispering, John?” Sherlock asks. “These windows are tinted and sound-proof. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed,” John says, struggling with his jumper. “I’m just not a circus contortionist. This space is bloody small, Sherlock!”

“Don’t tell me - _you’re_ the short one,” Sherlock mumbles, hands reaching for his trousers.

John swallows hard, and focuses on contorting the other way.

 

***

 

“Are you sure we’ll find information on our suspect here?” John says as they walk up to the casino.

“It’s a bit of a gamble,” Sherlock says, and they giggle.

“No giggling at a potential crime scene,” John scolds.

He can’t help but stare at Sherlock. They’ve both emerged from the Aston Martin, John looking like he’d just shared a seat with twenty clowns in a tiny car, Sherlock looking like he’d just been to a spa. Sherlock really looks the part in his slim-fitted black suit and tailored white shirt, complete with a black bow tie. The stakes are always high when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, but now he looks like he’s walked straight out of a 1960’s casino heist film.

John, on the other hand, in his dark grey suit and gold tie, feels he looks… passable. He rubs his hands up and down trousers that feel far too expensive.

“You look…” Sherlock starts, but doesn’t finish. He simply clears his throat and adjusts his bow tie.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” a middle aged man at the entrance says. His suit looks equally expensive, even though it’s clear he’s just a doorman.

Sherlock slips a tight packet of money in the man’s breast pocket. Vacuum sealed, John wonders? He tries not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“The Gold room, if you’d be so kind,” Sherlock says.

Not just a doorman, perhaps.

The man nods curtly and turns around. They follow him through a large room full of white curtains, glass chandeliers, plush chairs and blackjack tables. John recognises some of the faces there - politicians, celebrities. He puts on a poker face and focuses on the doorman’s back.

Soon, they enter a tiny room. The walls are adorned with gold silk wallpaper, the floor is all red-patterned carpet, in the corner there’s an aquarium with a python inside, and in the middle there’s a single poker table.

Seven people are already in the room, most of them standing around the green table. John surveys them quickly. There are three heavy-set men, probably bodyguards of sorts. Two women in short dresses, one blonde and grumpy-looking, and one with short, curly black hair. Two men are playing Texas Hold ‘em.

Opposite where they’ve entered, in the middle seat, is their target. He’s a suspected client of the arms dealer they’re after, Sherlock has informed John on the way over here. This man is a hardened criminal, always able to elude justice, to look just innocent enough to get away with the most clever, complicated crimes.

“Bill Wiggins,” Sherlock nods at him.

“Who are you?” Wiggins asks, allowing Sherlock and John to join the table.

John takes off his jacket and drapes it over his chair. Sherlock remains fully dressed.

“An interested party,” Sherlock says. “Mind if my partner and I play along?”

The other man at the table, a burly type, looks at them with suspicion and leaves the room. Meanwhile, Sherlock takes out a flat, silver case, opens it and removes a thin cigarette.

“The name’s Holmes,” he says as he puts it between his lips and lights it. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s mouth runs dry. How did he get so thirsty?

“I’m… Watson John,” he manages to utter, awkwardly. He stares at Sherlock’s lean fingers fondling a cigarette between his lips. As if he’s done little else in his life than playing poker with London’s underground figures, Sherlock deftly deals the cards. John is in awe - he didn’t know Sherlock could play.

John glances at his hand. Ace and Jack, spades. Could be good.

He keeps his face in check. Though they’re not really here to play, anyway.

“What brings you to the Gold room?” Bill Wiggins asks.

“I like the carpeting,” Sherlock says, as he fondles some gold-coloured chips.

“I’m a golddigger,” John says.

Sherlock looks at him, and pulls his cigarette hard, as if he’s suddenly desperate for nicotine.

John follows Sherlock’s game. “I heard you recently acquired some quality… gold bars.”

On the other side of John, the curly-haired woman sits down. She smiles at John and leans slightly forward, allowing a look into her… full house, in the front of her dress. John averts his eyes.

He feels a royal flush on his cheeks.

“We’d like to know where to find the golden boy,” John continues, avoiding the name ‘Sebastian Moran’, but he’s the elephant in the room.

Next to him, Sherlock seems distracted by the curly-haired woman.

“Tell you what,” Wiggins says. “Let’s make this about more than just the money. You win this game, I give you the name and location of my golden mate.” He smiles. “You lose, I take a little finger. Off you, or your ‘partner’.”

John glances around the room. The three bodyguards are definitely armed, with multiple guns, it seems. The women probably have small knives or guns attached to their thighs, judging by the outline of their dresses. They’re outnumbered. Though it’s not the first time that’s happened, of course.

Wiggins leans forward. “Doc… Eh, mister Watson. Do you have… a good hand?”

John’s cards so far, are quite promising. Judging from his slightly nervous demeanor, he estimates Sherlock doesn’t have very good cards. But they need to get to Moran through this moron.

“Let’s play,” he says.

As they continue the game, the gorgeous woman next to John reaches with her gold-painted fingernails under the table and touches his arm. Momentarily, he freezes. But it’s important to stay in the game, not to give anything away. Not to let anything distract him.

She starts to slowly unbutton his shirtsleeve.

Jesus.

On the other side of him, Sherlock tenses visibly.

“So, where did you learn to play Texas Hold’em?” John asks Wiggins. “Did you, eh, pick it up as a student?”

“I’ve got street smarts, Mister Watson,” Wiggins replies. “It’s time you folded. Ready to pack?”

“I’m good, thanks. Not, eh, showing my hand yet,” John says as the woman next to him writes her number on his arm with lipstick.

Wiggins doesn’t notice a thing.

Sherlock, however, licks his lips. “The game, John,” he hisses.

John glances at him. He should act more professionally. They’re here on behalf of the Queen, after all.

“Ready for the showdown?” John asks Wiggins.

Sherlock looks nervous.

“You first,” Wiggins says.

Sherlock puts his cards on the table. Four of a Kind. Quite high up. Sherlock grins. “Time to show me the gold.”

Wiggins turns his cards. “Straight Flush. What do you say to that, Mister Holmes?”

Sherlock swallows. John watches his Adam’s apple bob. “It’s fine, John,” Sherlock says. “I’ll give my middle f…”

“Royal Flush,” John says quickly. “I win. No fingering needed.”

Wiggins shoots up from his chair. “You cheated.”

“No I didn’t,” John says calmly.

He reaches for the pistol in the back of his trousers. But before he can grab it, Sherlock rips off his bow tie, presses his thumb down in the knot and throws it in the middle of the table. There, it explodes in a cloud of smoke. Sherlock grabs John’s hand and together they run out the room, to the main gambling hall. The politicians at the blackjack tables only look mildly annoyed at the noise. They hurry past them, to a door with a fire exit sign.

They push it open, and are stranded on a third floor balcony. A pretty deep fall.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate and grabs a device from his inner pocket. It seems to be some sort of climber’s claw, which he attaches to the railing. A thin cable hangs from the claw, attached to Sherlock’s belt.

“Do you trust me?” he asks John, looking him in the eye intensely.

John blinks twice. Christ. Dry mouth, anyone? He really should have had a drink in there.

“Hold onto me,” Sherlock orders. “Tight.”

John hesitates.

“Don’t be shy,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. He grabs John by the waist and pulls him closer.

Once more unto the breach. And over it, apparently. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, and together they drop over the railing. The climbing claw holds, and the strong cable lowers them slowly enough to the street. John holds on, feeling Sherlock’s muscles clench. His nose, for some reason, is right in his curls. Great. People will talk.

When they reach the ground, Sherlock unlocks himself with shaky hands. They look up, and on the balcony, two men from the Gold room are looking down at them, guns in their hands.

They sprint for their lives.

When they’re far enough and don’t seem to have been followed, they rest against the brick wall of an alley.

“Well, that was useless,” Sherlock pants.

“Speak for yourself, I just won 400,000 pounds,” John says.

Sherlock shoots him a look, and suddenly, they’re both giggling on the pavement. John wipes a tear from his eye.

“Lucky for you, I’ve applied some real James Bond tricks,” John says.

Sherlock startles. “What do you mean?”

“During the game, that woman started writing on my arm. I thought it was her phone number, but when I subtly checked it later, it looked odd. At first, I thought she just needed to work on her blind spelling, but then I figured it must be a code of sorts. She must be a double agent or something.”

“A double agent, John? Really?” Sherlock says sceptically. “Going out on a limb there?”

“That woman must have been a Bond fan, obviously. If you hadn’t been mouthing off during those Bond nights… Seriously Sherlock, what would you do without me?”

He rolls up his sleeve. On his arm, there are numbers and letters in smeared red lipstick: 52°22’N 4°54’E.

“John, you are amazing, you are brilliant!” Sherlock shouts, giddy with joy. “That’s not a phone number, those are geographic coordinates.”

Sherlock takes out his phone. “Let’s punch these in…”

John stares at his arm. It saved his life, today. Twice.

It still remembers Sherlock’s strong shoulders.

“Amsterdam!” Sherlock smiles. “The game is on.”

He pauses.

“Well. On a Eurostar train.”

 

***

 

“I can’t carry both of these cases, Sherlock,” John complains. 

He’s following Sherlock down the aisle of their Eurostar carriage.

“I’m not your personal porter. Please take the one that M sent us,” John says, letting the rather large overnight bag knock into Sherlock’s legs.

““You can just say _Mycroft_ , John. He can’t hear you in here, and neither can his secretary,” Sherlock says. "And we’re already at our seats anyway."

Sherlock points to a four-seater with a tiny table in the middle, and helps store the bag and the suitcase above their assigned seats.

Not that John is too short or anything.

“It’s a three hour train ride,” Sherlock says. “We’ll take turns napping while the other watches the bags.”

John stares in awe as it takes Sherlock exactly two minutes to fall asleep. He sleeps through all the announcements, in English, French and Dutch. He sleeps through an old lady passing by with two corgis that bark at him. He sleeps through the whole Channel tunnel.

He doesn’t, however, sleep through the gunshot.

As Sherlock startles awake, John jumps up to see where it came from. In that moment, he’s tackled from the back, and smacks hard against the small table.

Sherlock immediately pulls the man off, and punches him in the face. A little further down the carriage, John can see people running out the door. Some struggling to take their bags with them, others are just plain panicking. One teenager is undisturbed, playing a game on his phone.

John tries to kick the attacker, but he takes John’s leg and twists it, forcing him to the ground. John looks up, and the man grins. It’s hideous. His teeth are metal, sharp like a shark’s.

“You must be Iron Man,” Sherlock says. “Heard a lot about you.”

Sherlock whacks him over the head with the gadget suitcase, and the man falls to the floor.

“Run, John,” Sherlock says, and throws him the suitcase while grabbing the overnight bag himself. Together, they dash out of the carriage. John is not sure whereto; the train is moving, there’s no clear exit. They can’t very well go to the roof because it’s going too fast. All he knows is he needs to run.

He gets as far as the toilet. There, another man jumps on them, knocking John towards the vestibule doors.

Sherlock turns around, reaches into his waistband and takes out a golden gun. John shakes his head in disbelief. How long had that been there? He is happy to see it though.

The man however, is unimpressed and simply lifts his hand. Well - _hand_. To his amazement, John sees that it’s really a metal claw, which he uses to twist Sherlock’s gun.

It is utterly ridiculous.

It is brilliant.

Finally, it dawns on him. This is straight out of Bond films, all of it. The claw hand - _Live or Let Die_ . The shark teeth - _The Spy Who Loved Me_. It can’t be a coincidence. It must be some sort of huge prank that Sherlock and Mycroft are pulling on him. Or an exciting case they’re organising for him - specifically. John frowns. For his… For his birthday?

The golden gun is completely bent now, courtesy of the man’s claw hand.

“Is it a bottle opener too?” Sherlock pants. “We’d like to hire you for parties.”

John giggles. Look at that amazing man organising a funny James Bond case for his birthday. A casino, a chase on a train - classic Bond. Bloody brilliant.

He decides to play along, play the game, and jumps up. It’s the least he can do for Sherlock.

John holds out his Walther P99 pistol - is it even loaded? - and looks the man in the eye.

“Let him go, now,” he orders. “You piece of metal trash.”

The claw opens; Sherlock pistol-whips him with the distorted gun, and the attacker falls to the floor. Seemingly unconscious. John is in awe. This man, this fantastic actor, falling down with his fake claw. All because Sherlock wanted to surprise him. It fills his heart with sweet, sweet joy.

“That was amazing, John,” Sherlock beams.

But at that moment, a bullet hits a piece of bulkhead right next to Sherlock’s head. A frightened look crosses his face, and he pushes John out of the way. Just in time to dodge a second bullet - it flies right through the glass door. Sherlock stares at it for a few seconds, blinking. Then, he gets up quickly and pulls the emergency stop.

The train brakes immediately.

Through the force, John gets thrown against Sherlock’s body.

John didn’t know gravity could feel this way.

When the train slows down further, Sherlock pulls both of them up and points to an emergency exit hatch in the ceiling, that’s placed there in case the train derails. He holds out both hands for John to step on. John hoists their bags up and out, and then himself.

He can’t believe Mycroft made a deal with Eurostar to make the train do an emergency stop in the middle of a trip. He really is the most powerful man in Britain. ‘M’. John chuckles to himself.

On the roof of the Eurostar, which has nearly fully stopped now, John focuses on their surroundings. They’re in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in rural France, meadows everywhere around them. He looks over the edge, and feels suddenly dizzy.

Sherlock pulls himself up behind him, Belstaff flapping in the wind, curls unruly, pale as a sheet - looking straight out of a vampire novel. Sherlock throws the gadget case and the bag away, into a French field. Then he turns to John, panting, with something close to pure panic in his eyes.

 _He really is an amazing actor_ , John thinks.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asks.

John hugs him tight.

Together, they fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been... overwhelming and amazing. Thank you all who've been messaging, commenting, kudos'ing, reblogging, headcanoning, or even just silently reading (it's all fine ;) ). Nothing, absolutely nothing compares to writing for fandom.


	3. Dr. Nope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are stranded in France. Sherlock panics while John goofs off. More puns? You bet.

“How’s your French, brother mine?”

Sherlock shifts the iPhone to his other ear.

“Dégage, crétin,” Sherlock hisses.

He glances at John, who’s sitting a few feet away, watching the stationary Eurostar from the bushes. He told him to check if there were any other people leaving the train. In which case, they’d really have to make a run for it.

“You’re the one who pulled an emergency stop,” Mycroft says. “That wasn’t part of Operation Bond.”

“Neither was getting shot at with real bullets.”

“What?”

Sherlock checks to make sure John hasn’t heard. “We’d defeated Jaws and Tee Hee as planned. Even the bending of the golden gun went splendidly. But then a third, unknown party started shooting at us. Are you sure the target is still in Amsterdam?”

A long pause.

“My people still have an eye on him,” Mycroft says. “He’s in his apartment, they can see him sitting behind a curtain as we speak.”

“Well, _someone_ started shooting at us. An overeager extra? You know what they’re like, always trying to get a speaking part.”

“Impossible.”

“Fix it, Mycroft. And get us out of here, _stat_ ,” Sherlock hisses.

From the bushes, John smiles at him, and waves.

Sherlock briefly closes his eyes. “I never thought I’d say this, but _get me to the Netherlands_.”

Mycroft sighs. “It’s getting late, you’ve had enough… excitement for one day. And you’re actually quite near Paris. I’m booking you a hotel, and sending a car to pick you up. Don’t bother sending me your coordinates - Eurostar already called those in to the French police.”

“Mycroft --”

He’s already hung up, insufferable man. Sherlock grunts. Great. Now they’re stuck in bloody France with a potential killer on the loose. Sherlock hadn’t been counting on this case actually requiring effort - other than ziplining himself to the ground with John _extremely_ close to his body.

Thankfully, John is completely caught up in the case, focused and ready to fight. If this all goes south, Sherlock needs him to be a real soldier.

John jumps up from the bushes, whistling. “Where to now, 0028?” he asks, smiling broadly.

“To the main road, 009,” Sherlock says. “How’s your French, by the way?”

As he drags the suitcase and overnight bag after him through another field, John smiles. “My education pretty much stopped at ‘ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi_ ’, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Sherlock pauses. Did John just… Ask to sleep with him? Or did he demonstrate his knowledge of the French phrase - to lure women? Did he have a French girlfriend when he was younger? (Is he very good at French kissing?)

“You know. The song?” John says.

“Oh.” What song?

Before he gets lost in _that_ particular rabbit hole, a blue Ford Mustang pulls up. The driver, a French woman wearing a blue scarf over her head, rolls down the window.

Clearly Secret Service.

“Can I have a lift?” Sherlock asks.

“Can’t we just have a Lyft?” John quips.

“Uber funny, John,” Sherlock says, and jumps in the car.

 

***

 

 _This is not funny, Mycroft.  
_ _SH_

 

 _It’s July. Do you really think there were many hotels available in Paris?  
_ _MH_

 

 _You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.  
_ _SH_

 

Sherlock is staring at the entrance of the hotel where the woman just dropped them off. John lifts his eyebrows.

“Well,” John says. “This is…”

“A Disney hotel, yes John, thank you.”

“Disneyland Paris… does this mean we’re in Paris?”

“It’s in Chessy. But close.”

“Well. It looks like a decent hotel to me. I like large Victorian style buildings.”

“With a Mickey Mouse portrait in the flowerbed,” Sherlock adds. “And god knows what else.”

“I’ve never been to Disneyland,” John says, squinting his eyes at the sight.

Sherlock looks at him with uncertainty. Is that on John’s wishlist? Perhaps they should just dismiss the case, leave Mycroft to clean up the mess, and take a holiday right here.

A group of kids run past them, nearly knocking Sherlock over.

Nope, he prefers getting shot at. _Definitely_ getting shot at.

“Come on, Grumpy,” John says, smiling. “Let’s get inside, I could use a nap.”

The lady at the check-in desk smiles brightly at the two men. She’s in her mid thirties, impeccably dressed with a housewife hairdo, and with one more button unfastened on her blouse than Walt would approve of. Sherlock looks back at the doorman, who’s got his back to the actual entrance now and is watching them closely.

“A last-minute booking, I see,” the woman says.

Sherlock grunts at her. She’s clearly using her annoying French accent to try to extract information, and for no higher reason than her curiosity.

“An impending divorce, I see,” Sherlock says.

The woman looks momentarily stunned. John elbows him in the side.

“Holmes-Watson,” the woman says, with as much sugar as she can still muster. “You’re in the Sleeping Beauty suite.”

_Damn Mycroft._

“That means you get a private floor, a jacuzzi, a kitchen, as well as extra amenities. And of course, VIP Fast Passes for Disneyland. Here’s a brochure, here are your key cards,” she says. “Do you have any more questions?”

“What’s the maximum prison sentence in France for homicide?” Sherlock asks.

“How long can we use our Fast Passes?” John talks over him quickly.

“The park is almost closed for the day, I would recommend using them tomorrow,” the lady says, her smile faltering a little. “Have a magical time, _messieurs_.”

As a staff member guides them to their room, a man dressed as Goofy waves at them. Sherlock grinds his teeth. Utterly. Humiliating.

But when the door closes behind them, he can’t help but be endeared by John’s bulging eyes, open mouth, and childlike excitement. The Sleeping Beauty suite is far bigger than 221B, and far more expensive-looking. It has a large dining room with seating for ten, it has a spacious and light living room filled with Disney memorabilia, a luxurious bathroom with rain shower and -

_Damn, damn Mycroft._

One king-sized bed.

As if that doesn’t matter, John turns to Sherlock.

“I love this,” he says. “This whole trip, this suite. It’s great, Sherlock.”

“It’s a business trip, John,” Sherlock reminds him. “ _Lives_ are at stake!”

“Right, sure. Yeah,” John says, walking around the bedroom. He strokes one of the poles of the bedpost. It’s one of those old fashioned beds that are… ridiculously romantic, Sherlock realises with a pang.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” Sherlock says.

“Don’t be absurd,” John says. “We’ll both sleep in this bed. You’re not a snorer, are you?”

“I am not,” Sherlock says, slightly insulted. Though he’s not sure. He silently curses himself: he should have recorded himself sleeping at least once to be sure, but he never has. Never assumed he’d be sleeping next to anyone. He frowns. “Are you... a deep sleeper?”

John laughs with playful suspicion, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he starts walking around the suite, opening drawers and cupboards, making exclamations and naming the things he sees. “This is stunning, wow, look at these drawings of Sleeping Beauty. Are they original? There’s _caviar_ in the fridge, Sherlock. This piano is… Do you play? Look at this posh Donald Duck! Is this what rich people like?”

It’s as if John is deducing the world around him by pointing out the obvious, and yet revealing it to Sherlock in wholly new ways.

“Dreadful,” Sherlock mumbles, miserably smitten, following him around.

In the bedroom, John finds a storage box shaped like a stack of books. The top one reads ‘The Divine Comedy’. He tries to open it, but it won’t budge.

“Bloody… Sherlock,” John says. “Do you think this is a safe or something?”

“That’s safe to assume. Shall we order room service?”

“No, Sherlock, I’d like to open this. I just find it odd that it’s closed, that’s all. Right?”

Sherlock frowns. “I don’t think the Disneyland Hotel is hiding secrets from us, John.”

John turns it around, and finds a keyhole on the side. He looks at it with a frustrated sadness.

“Wait just a second,” Sherlock says, and he walks to the gadget suitcase, where, after 37 seconds of rummaging, he finds what he’s looking for. MI6 magic, better than Disney.

“You may find these keys useful,” Sherlock says, offering them up. “They open ninety percent of the world’s locks.”

“Including _Sherlocks_?” John jokes, looking up with a half-smile on his lips.

Sherlock cannot get himself to voice his response. _Only one key for that._

Jesus. All these fairytale drawings must be making him soppy.

One of the MI6 keys fits, it opens, and John takes out a bottle.

_Fuck._

“It’s… massage oil,” John says, dumbfounded.

_Damn Mycroft._

“It’s from Mycroft,” John says.

Bastard treats even Disneyland as part of the Commonwealth. But there is clearly no other option than blatant denial.

“Nonsense. Why do you think that?”

“It says M on the bottle.”

“For Massage oil.”

Sherlock tries to look impassive, but inwardly he’s panicking. How dare his brother meddle in his personal affairs like this? John is _not gay_ , for christ’s sakes.

John frowns. “It must be some kind of explosive liquid or innovative poison or something fancy.”

Sherlock slightly falters. Dear Lord. This man is so oblivious there could have been rose petals on the bed and he’d still have thought a strong gust of wind carried them in.

John unscrews the top and sniffs it. “Lavender,” he says, as if that’s supposed to mean something.

Sherlock steeples his hands together. “I wonder what this all means,” he tries to humour him. Put him on the wrong scent.

John’s eyes narrow. He’s clearly mulling it over.

He’s off the hook, he’s off the hook!

John walks up to the bedroom wall, holds his ear closely to it and then hits a fist through it.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Sherlock says, running up to him.

Pieces of drywall fall to the floor.

“Oh, sorry…” John says, looking a little dazed from the wall to his knuckles. “I was so sure… I thought there was a hidden space behind this, just like in Spec… Um, a film I saw. I thought there were more clues, like the massage oil.”

Oh John. The massage oil _was_ a clue.

A clue that M is a meddlesome maniac.

“Thank God this room is on Mycroft’s credit card,” Sherlock mumbles.

He carefully takes John’s left hand in his and lifts it. His knuckles are slightly damaged - one is bleeding.

“You could have hurt yourself,” he says softly.

He feels John’s pulse quickening in his grip. Has he been holding his hand too long? Sherlock quickly releases it.

“Let me get you some ice,” he says.

Soon, John is seated on the living room sofa with a large Mickey Mouse shaped ice lolly against his knuckles.

“This is humiliating,” he complains.

Sherlock stares out the window, hands folded behind his back. They’re on the top floor of the hotel, right across from Disneyland’s entrance. He can see people leaving, smiling. Carrying awful balloons with _faces_ on them.

John is right, of course. This _is_ humiliating. Just not for _him_. Sherlock can’t stop thinking about the massage oil in the room.

“Shut up and eat your ice lolly,” Sherlock says. “Doctor’s orders.”

They spend the rest of the evening ordering room service, watching terrible French game shows and ranking old Disney movies from ‘passable’ to ‘unbearable’. John finds a bottle of Kina Lillet in the fridge, and soon, a soothing buzz fills Sherlock’s head.

“We shouldn’t be drinking on the case, really,” he says. “You could be in mortal danger.”

“What could _possibly_ happen to me here?” John says. “Crushed by Dumbo the Flying Elephant? Too many spins on the Mad Tea Party carousel?”

He laughs and, leaning over, puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee to steady himself. However, his arm suddenly trembles too much, and to stop him from falling Sherlock catches him by the shoulder.

John winces visibly, and Sherlock quickly pulls back his hand.

“So sorry,” he mumbles, trying to de-buzz his brain. This wine is crumbling the mask he so carefully carries.

“No, Sherlock,” John says, grimacing. “I don’t mind. It’s just… It’s my bad shoulder, that’s all.”

Christ. If there ever was a worst time for a massage bottle to gleam in the corner of Sherlock’s eye, just standing there, _J’accuse._

John follows Sherlock’s gaze.   

“I can… if you want,” Sherlock says.

“What, are you trying to kill me?”

More like suicide.

“It’ll help with your shoulder,” Sherlock says. “It’s really just oil.”

What’s _in_ this wine? Was it out of date?

John catches Sherlock’s eyes and slowly sucks in a breath through his teeth, as if deciding at that very moment about life or death. Sherlock hears the sound of his own heart beating against his chest. After twenty-two extraordinary long seconds, John pulls himself up, and puts his hands on his hips.

“Okay, then.”

All the alcohol’s heat rushes to Sherlock’s cheeks at once, as John starts unbuttoning his shirt. He stands tense, army-like.

Sherlock surrenders.

He averts his eyes, gets up and grips the massage bottle as he follows John to the bedroom. John throws his shirt over the safe, and lies on the bed, on his stomach, hands folded under his chin.

Waiting.

Like a subdued beast. Whatever might happen if Sherlock touches it?

There really should have been rose petals.

He swallows, removes his shoes and carefully positions himself on top of John. _Into battle_ , he tells himself as he rubs his hands together with massage oil, heating it. He knows nothing about giving massages, but he does know about muscles and tendons and anatomy.

And boy… talk about _anatomy_. The sight before him is breathtaking.

Near John’s left shoulder, the bullet wound scar has healed rather clumsily - clearly treated in a battlefield hospital setting with limited resources. From what Sherlock read in John’s military file - Mycroft has his uses sometimes - a wounded John had carried a soldier over his other shoulder, to safety, before collapsing from blood loss and sheer agony.

John would probably describe himself as broken, imperfect. But Sherlock doesn’t think so. John is absolutely stunning. His back is muscled and strong, and every scar makes him only more interesting. Sherlock would like to thoroughly study his every mole, every soldier’s mark. He lowers his trembling hands, disbelieving he is really allowed to touch this soft, rough, beautiful, scarred man before him.

Slowly, he slides his fingers from John’s lower back upwards, to the base of his neck, and disperses his hands to either shoulder. Not too hard, just to feel his body out. A low moan escapes John’s lips. God, it’s electrifying.

If only posh Donald Duck wasn’t watching this whole scene with his dead brass eyes.

“Good?” Sherlock asks, rubbing circles around John’s scar with his thumb.

“God, yes,” John mumbles, sounding far away.

Sherlock repeats the motion counterclockwise, making sure to put an even pressure on the scar, then moves back to John’s other shoulder. He traces his spine, while his own heart beats heavily in his throat, from John’s neck to where his back disappears into his trousers, then back up again.

It is a slow dance.

It is a sweet touch.

It is everything and more.

Wait. Is John asleep?

A soft snore escapes John’s open mouth on the pillow. Sherlock retreats hesitantly. Of course John would be tired, after a day full of excitement. The car, the casino, the Eurostar ride, and then French television. It’s too much for any person. Especially combined with wine.

He can’t help but be a bit disappointed, though. This might be the only time he’ll ever be granted access to John’s body. With a lingering sense of loss, he leans over and slowly inhales. Lavender, mixed with everything _John_.

A cursed scent.

Softly, Sherlock presses a kiss on John’s scar.

John does not wake.

 

***

 

John is watching him sleep. Sherlock can feel it as he lays, eyes closed and on his back, while the morning sunlight touches his skin.

A lesser man would call that intuition, or _tension_ hanging in the air. It is, of course, the result of living with someone for more than a year and knowing their breathing patterns intimately. Of having felt the mattress shift, perhaps; of feeling the outliers of the dip of an elbow that a head might lean on.

“Am I a snorer?” Sherlock asks.

“No,” John says. Sherlock can hear a smile in his voice, and he opens one eye so it’ll be the first thing he sees this morning.

John, on his side, head resting on his elbow. Smiling indeed. A soft sun-kissed smile.

A lesser man would gloat about the correct assumptions.

But Sherlock can see the smile slowly fading and he closes his eye again so he won’t have to see the realisation on John’s face that nobody else has ever heard Sherlock not snore during the night.

A tad annoyed with himself for lowering his guard, he turns to his side and reaches for the telephone next to their bed.

“Green figs, yogurt, coffee, very black,” he orders room service.

John better appreciate this breakfast from _From Russia With Love_.

“We do not have green figs, Monsieur,” the voice on the other end of the telephone replies, with a hint of fear in her voice.

Sherlock glances back at John. “Oh thank god,” he mumbles. “Make it French toast. For two. And maybe no yogurt. And very black coffee but also with two sugars. And chocolate milk.”

He feels guilty.

“Shaken, not stirred.”

Whoops. Saved the day.

The mattress is shaking a little. Sherlock ignores it and checks his phone.

 

 _Charles De Gaulle. 4:15pm.  
_ _MH_

 

“We have a flight to Amsterdam this afternoon,” Sherlock says.

He turns around to face John again, who’s pushed himself up against the headboard. He’s shirtless, and somewhere during the night he must have pushed his trousers off, because he’s only in his underwear now. Though that area is neatly covered by the bed sheet.

Sherlock tries to ignore that - though it really his area. To look at.

He pushes himself up as well, so they’re almost touching nude shoulders, but not quite.

“Oh. We’re going by plane?”

“Well. Eurostar might have… banned us.”

“Really?” John sounds surprised.

“For life,” Sherlock mutters.

There’s a brief pause before they both snort and have a giggle. Their chests shake. John wipes a some moisture from his eyes.

“When does our flight leave?” John asks.

“Around four,” Sherlock says.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“We have time to go to Disneyland, then.”

Sherlock startles so much he nearly falls into John’s very nude shoulder. Christ, he still smells faintly like lavender. _Get yourself together_ , Sherlock scolds himself. _You’re a consulting detective, not a bloody police dog._

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“We have Fast Passes.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to use them.”

John pouts. “It’s my birthday.”

Sherlock blinks. “Can’t we just go to the hotel spa? I’m not... unreasonable. I’m open to compromise.”

“No, you’re open to massages,” John says, then immediately closes his mouth and clears his throat. “Besides, I’m not too keen on mud treatments. Got enough of them during my army days.”

Must explain his beautiful skin.

Sherlock shakes his head. “We packed very lightly, you know. You want to go to Disneyland… Dressed in Valentino suits?”

“You’re right. We should go to the Disney shop and buy fun tshirts.”

“We will do no such thing.”

 

***

 

They buy a rucksack with Dalmatian dots at the gift shop, because Sherlock agrees they can’t walk around with the gadget suitcase like they’re at Disney to attend an important HR meeting. But Sherlock refuses to buy any other merchandise, and only agrees to leave his suit jacket back in the suite because it’s quite sunny. He’s wearing a tight waistcoat, though. He shouldn’t let Disney ruin his Bond aesthetic.

John is not bothered by such ruminations, however, and settles for a tight-fitting black Star Wars shirt that depicts a helmet and the words ‘I am your father’.

_Daddy, please._

Their Fast Passes allow them to make reservations at certain attractions - Sherlock shudders at the thought - and return later at their assigned times. John makes a reservation at the Star Wars Hyperspace Mountain - bit of a theme - and leads the way through Discoveryland as Sherlock begrudgingly follows, staring at the damn Dalmatians rucksack.

John is so happy though.

So when John isn’t looking, Sherlock is smiling.

After Sherlock is forced to ride a coaster called ‘Crush’s Coast’ - about a fish called Nemo - John buys an automated photo Disneyland took while they were riding.

“Why would you buy that?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s evidence.”

“What?” Sherlock frowns. Did he miss a clue?

“Of you enjoying yourself,” John says.

Sherlock tries to grab it. “I should confiscate it,” he says, suppressing his smile.

They walk on, stroll through the park. Eat ice cream. The two of them against the rest of the world, blood pumping through their veins, the thrill of the… rollercoasters.

This is, perhaps, at certain moments, quite nice.

Then his phone rings.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says. It’s odd that his brother would call.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. He sounds a bit odd. “There might be a slight inconvenience.”

“An inconvenience?”

“We seem to have lost Moran.”

John’s head perks up, perhaps sensing that something is wrong. Sherlock turns away from him.

“What do you mean, you’ve lost him?” he hisses.

John stuffs the rest of a candyfloss quickly into his mouth.

“I thought your people had your eye on him, only yesterday,” Sherlock says. “He was sitting at his window.”

“Well. It appears that was a…”

“Spill it, Mycroft.”

“A mannequin.”

_Bloody MI6. Amateurs._

“So you don’t know where he is, or how long he’s been missing,” Sherlock says icily. “You really are terrible at blind chess.”

Sherlock ends the call and locks eyes with John. John’s mouth is set in a serious line. With a pink strand of candyfloss in the corner.

At that moment, a tranquilizer dart flies past John’s head and gets stuck in a nearby bush. John pales. “That’s… That was a real…”

Sherlock’s blood runs cold. He grabs John’s hand, and together they run straight into Alice’s Curious Labyrinth. They run past the whistling caterpillar statue, past purple towers, through the bushes of the maze.

“This is a nightmare”, Sherlock mumbles. “Oh, and also, our lives are in danger.”

After running for what feels like an eternity, Sherlock drags John behind a fake tree. On top of it, the Cheshire Cat grins. They pant, exhausted. Sherlock shields John’s body with his, standing so close he can feel his hot breath on his exposed neck.

They listen.

Nothing.

_Deng deng deng deng - deng deng - deng deng deng deng -_

“Sherlock?” John hisses.

“Hm?”

_Toodoo toodoooooo tododo_

“Did you change my bloody ringtone to the James Bond theme?”

“Perhaps.”

John turns the phone off hastily.

“In my defense,” Sherlock says. “I did assume you’d put your phone on silent during a hide-out.”

Shots start whizzing past their heads. _Shit. Shit shit shit_ , Sherlock thinks. _This is_ so _not the way it was supposed to be._

When the unknown shooter stops, and they hear the rather close sound of a gun reloading, John reaches into his Dalmatians rucksack. Sherlock stares at him in terror. They can’t die. This was supposed to be a fun trip. John fumbles in the rucksack.

And takes out a Goofy plush toy.

“Sorry,” John says. “The good stuff’s at the bottom.”

Indeed.

John tosses the Goofy away.

“That was thirty euros, John.”

But then, John uncovers a large, very strong magnet. He points it in the direction the darts were coming earlier. With a loud clang, a large tranquilizer gun gets sucked against it.

And also, a ton of loose change.

And a necklace.

Attached to one very angry Sebastian Moran’s neck.

Moran takes advantage of their astonishment to punch John in the face, causing him to release the MI6 magnet. John stumbles backward, loses his equilibrium and falls on his back. Moran jumps on him, and tries to grab John’s rucksack while John struggles to fight him off.

Sherlock takes a pair of glasses from his breast pocket.

“Is this…” John pants, “The right time to fix your aesthetic?”

“It’s not my fault you forgot to read the magnet’s manual,” Sherlock says, while he quickly unscrews one of the temples to reveal a thin needle.

Quickly, he stabs Moran with the sedative, and yanks the man off John.

“Remember what the Dormouse said,” he whispers in Moran’s ear before he goes fully limp.

Sherlock drags the man a bit further out of sight while John stands up on shaky legs.

“God, Sherlock, I --”, John starts, but then pales as his eyes focus on something behind Sherlock.

Sherlock turns around, just in time to see five men, dressed in incredibly large Alice costumes, closing in on him. One of them puts his hand over his mouth, pressing a moist cloth against his lips and nose. The others grab him by the arms, by the legs, they enclose him, making the sun disappear entirely.

In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of John.

John doesn’t fight.

Doesn’t… protect him.

“Nope,” John’s lips slowly mouth.

Sherlock feels dizzy.

The five Alices look like giants to him. Sherlock sinks to his knees, too weak to fight back.

The last thing Sherlock sees, is the back of John’s shoes, as he runs.

“John…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this ride! 
> 
> Shoutout to my gal Weavetree for her Through the Looking Glass reference in the comment section of chapter 1. I screamed when I read that. Now you know why, my tree friend.
> 
> Also a huge thank you to all you lovely people who've been commenting, kudos'ing, messaging, reblogging, or just silently reading. I cannot express enough how much that means to me. You guys are the best.


	4. Johnlocktopussy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is dragged off by five crossdressing criminals. John needs to save him from some big dick energy. Basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought the puns couldn't get any worse. Then you read the chapter title.

This isn’t a game anymore.

John watches from the bushes as the five men dressed as giant Alices stuff an unconscious Moran and an equally limp Sherlock into large burlap sacks, lift the sacks onto a cart and pull it to the Labyrinth’s exit.

The Alices move through Disneyland, regularly pausing to begrudgingly pose for pictures with some very confused children.

From a distance, wearing a cap and sunglasses and blending in with groups of tourists, John watches them. He feels his jaw throb from Moran’s punches. This is definitely not a game anymore. Not a birthday surprise. Something has gone very, very wrong.

The moment he realised something was off, John knew he had two choices. Fight or flight. But he would be up against five men in possession of sedatives - and who knows what else. Or who else. Just like in the army: sometimes it’s better to retreat and to come up with a plan, and then strike back harder.

So now John is going to follow those Alices through Wonderland to hell and back. He feels like a tit for not fighting those Alices. However, if he had, then he’d be captured too, and what good would that do them?

And now he has to do something Sherlock might _truly_ deem unforgivable.

He calls Mycroft.

“Where is he?” Mycroft says when picking up. No hello, no niceties.

“Not even a happy birthday?” John says.

“You wouldn’t call me unless something went wrong.”

“You bet your MI6 arse something went wrong,” John says. “He’s currently being abducted by five crossdressing criminals. Please tell me this is part of Sherlock’s big James Bond surprise.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone.

“I’ve underestimated you,” Mycroft says.

“You’ve underestimated _them_ ,” John says, angrily. “And now Sherlock might die. In a… beautiful magical place,” he mumbles as his eyes land on the Alices dragging the cart into the iconic Sleeping Beauty Castle, on top of a small mountain. They’re sweaty from the effort, causing parents to look at them disapprovingly and ushering their children away.

“Keep your eyes fixed on him,” Mycroft orders. As if John would need to be told. “I’m sending backup.”

John approaches the castle, and lingers near the entrance as the Alices shove the cart into a doorway, closing the door behind them. John runs up to it, and tries the handle. Locked. There’s a sign on the door - _La Tanière du Dragon: fermée pour la journée_.

“The Alices have gone into the Dragon’s Lair,” John pants into the phone, panicking. “But it’s closed. And it’s not a regular lock, but some fancy keypad.”

Well, _fancy_. With little Donald Ducks on it, holding colorful numbers.

“Wait there, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says. “Help is on the way.”

“Just tell me one thing, Mycroft. Do I have a real gun?” John asks.

There’s a long pause. John fingers the Walther P99 tucked into his waistband. “Is this a bloody kid’s prop, Mycroft?”

“They’re blanks.”

“Jeeeeeesus.”

“We couldn’t endanger our actors’ lives. We were going to switch it with a real gun in Amsterdam.”

“You were… What? We were _shot at_!” Passing families throw him concerned looks. “Nevermind. Just… get me, you know. To the dragon. Into the mountain.”

“It’s not that pretty a dragon, mate,” a man says, passing by whilst pushing a pram.

John glares, and ends the call.

Wait and do nothing? Just stare at this locked door? What kind of man does Mycroft think he is? He opens the Dalmatian rucksack. Frantically, he starts checking out the different gadgets Q has provided them with. Those, at least, have worked so far.

The keys that open almost every lock are useless with a keypad. They are attached to an explosive keychain, which he can’t use in public anyway. There are explosive glasses, too. There’s also a cigarette lighter that doubles as a grenade. Dentonite toothpaste. A box of sleeping pills. A cigarette that can shoot a mini rocket. A pocket snap trap - like a fancy mouse trap. A salad-filled French baguette that might just actually be lunch.

John pockets the snap trap, and replaces the gun in his waistband with a bottle of perfume that doubles as a flamethrower. Time to go meet the dragon.

Suddenly, the door handle moves. John jumps back and hides amongst a group of German tourists.

It’s the Alices - except now, they are empty-handed and head outside the castle, scattering in different directions.

They must be looking for him, John realises.

Luckily nobody willfully pays attention to German tourists.

When they’re gone, John runs back to the door. Locked. What happened? Why did they all leave? Is Sherlock… No. He can’t allow himself to think it.

He reaches into the rucksack for the gadgets manual and finds Q’s number on the first page. If Mycroft won’t help...

“Yeah?” The voice on the other end of the line croaks.

“Errr… Is this Q?” John says.

“Um, yes. How can I help you? You didn’t eat the baguette, did you?”

“Listen, Sherlock Holmes is in mortal danger. For real,” John says. He hears Q’s breath hitch on the other end of the line.

“Where is he right now?”

“Sleeping Beauty’s Castle.”

“Piss off, mate. It’s my day off.”

“I’m serious. We’re at Disneyland. Keep up. Don’t make me tell Mycroft Holmes you caused his little brother’s death.”

That seems to change Q’s mind. “Please… How can I help you, sir? I mean, 009.”

“There’s a keypad for the door that leads into a basement called La Tanière Du Dragon. I need you to break into the system so I can enter into the mountain.”

“And do what? Help the dwarves? Destroy the Ring?”

“I think I’m calling Mycroft.”

“No, please,” Q quickly says. “I’m starting my laptop. This should be fairly easy. Just hang on a minute.”

John paces back and forth, eyeing tourists, checking that there aren’t any Alices nearby. Or maybe that extra back-up Mycroft promised.

“Right, I’m in,” Q says. His voice sounds strained, as if he’s actually exercising and not hacking into the Mickey wifi.

“How’s it looking?”

“I only have five minutes to break into the system… Oh shit.”

“What?”

A small pause. “Windows Vista update.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Sherlock could be _bleeding out_ behind that door.”

Some of the German tourists have started watching him as if he’s performing a play. John tries to shoo them with a hand gesture.

“You do know I’m not actually the Quartermaster, right?” Q says. “I’ve only just started this government internship and they asked me to handle this bloody job. It would be fun, they said!”

“How are you an intern? You are 90 years old!” John yells into the telephone.

“Scheiße,” a German tourist mumbles.

“I’m 57,” Q says defensively. “All I did was solve a crossword puzzle in The Times and suddenly, I’m doing a job interview in an abandoned parking garage with a guy carrying an umbrella during a heatwave.”

John curses beneath his breath. “They wouldn’t have selected you if you weren’t a genius of sorts. Now solve it!”

“If only it was a crossword puzzle on that door…”

“Solve it!”

For a minute, all John hears through the phone is laboured breathing and typing, as if he’s phoned a sex hotline for nerds. Then suddenly, the door makes a buzzing sound, and when John pushes it, it opens.

“I’m inside,” he whispers into the telephone. “Sorry about what I said about your age. You’re good, eh, _mate_.”

John closes the door behind him, and shoves his phone into his back pocket. Right. He’s in a barely lit hallway full of fake looking rocks and lights pretending to be oil lamps. There’s a staircase leading down. That’s where the dragon must be.

John hears faint voices coming from downstairs. He tries to tread the steps as quietly as possible, but… the dragon chamber is empty. There’s a statue of a fencer in the corner and a mechanical dragon resting on rocks surrounded by water. In front of it, Moran lies, still out cold from the injection.

The voices are coming from a room nearby.

When he peeps around the corner, his heart drops to his stomach.

Sherlock is tied down, lying spread-eagle on a table while a man wheels a giant machine towards him. He would recognise that silhouette anywhere. Small shoulders, impeccable outfit - John instantly regrets his Star Wars tshirt - and threatening posture: it’s Jim Moriarty.

For an insane moment, John hopes -- maybe Moriarty is doing the Bond surprise in exchange for penalty reduction?

Well. Reliving his swimming pool traumas wouldn’t feel very festive. But Sherlock has never been great at reading social cues.

Sherlock is awake, and looks nervously at Moriarty. “Re-enacting Goldfinger? It’s not our favourite. You should stick to Glee.”

Moriarty gives a tight smile and ignores the dig. “I knew you’d appreciate my attention to detail, Sherlock. It’s the famous industrial laser indeed, which emits an extraordinary light that can cut through metal. I’d like to see it cut all the way up this time. Consider it my own personal fix-it of the Bond stories.”

He points the tip of the laser to the table edge in between Sherlock’s feet, and turns it on. A powerful beam slowly starts cutting the table in half, edging slowly up between Sherlock’s legs.

“When I found out…” Moriarty starts.

“WHAT?” Sherlock yells over the laser’s noise.

Reluctantly, Moriarty turns off the machine. “When I found out what you were organising for your pet, I just couldn’t resist. Every good Bond story needs a good old-fashioned villain. I knew I’d make a great one.”

“You’ll need more than a cock laser,” Sherlock says. But he can’t fully hide the fear in his eyes, the wriggle of his hands in the ropes.

Moriarty smiles like the Cheshire Cat and caresses the laser. “I really wanted to try this new toy. It’s not personal. It’s the future. And you’re… not.”

Suddenly, a loud roar echoes. It’s John, who has used the control panel in the other room to switch on the dragon. He hides behind a rock next to the door as Moriarty walks curiously into the Dragon’s Lair. With Moriarty’s back turned to him, John slips into Sherlock’s room, like a spy.

The Lair is big and dark; searching it should take Moriarty a while. He appears to be unarmed and alone. If only John can untie Sherlock quickly, they can easily overpower him.

Sherlock watches John quietly but with panic welling in his eyes as John starts tugging on the ropes. Fuck, they’re tight. All those expensive gadgets but Q didn’t think to include a bloody Swiss army knife. The knots barely budge, and John is only halfway untying one when suddenly -

“Isn’t that touching,” Moriarty says, holding up a small gun.

John turns around, and lifts his hands.

“Thanks for the Bond prop,” John hisses at Sherlock. “That Walther P99 is really useful.”

“Is this the time and place for assigning blame?”

“Shut up,” Moriarty sings. “Please, sit down and enjoy the show.”

He motions to a nearby rock, but John doesn’t move. “You seem unhealthily obsessed with Sherlock, mate. Have you considered therapy instead of a cock laser?”

“I think I might kill _you_ first,” Moriarty says. “How do you feel about piranhas?”

For the first time, John notices the aquarium to his right. The piranhas seem monstrously huge.

“The fish seem bigger because of a magnifying effect in the glass,” Sherlock says. John shoots him an angry look. Nope. Not helping.

“Oh, I can just see the obituary already,” Moriarty gloats. “British secret service agent and his collaborator, John Watson, were found dead this morning in Disneyland. What a magical place to die.”

Sherlock wriggles in the ropes. “You’re only signing your own death certificate with this.”

“Please,” John says. “Just let Sherlock go. I’ll step into the aquarium willingly.”

Moriarty laughs, mad as a hatter. “How touching.” He steps closer. “Speaking of touching… Did you like my little gift?”

Moriarty keeps the gun pointed at John while bending down to sniff Sherlock’s fingers. “His hands still smell like lavender.”

Right. ‘ _M’_ on the massage oil bottle. Not Mycroft, after all.

Sherlock closes his eyes, bottom lip trembling.

John feels nauseous. Last night - he remembers. Sherlock’s hands on his back, softly caressing him. Not once did he hesitate to touch his scar. Nobody had ever done that with John before.

Moriarty approaches him. “You won’t mind if I search you first, right? Need to make sure you don’t carry a knife. I’d hate to lose a piranha to this.”

Moriarty keeps the gun on John’s temple while he trails his two fingers down John’s chest, and puts his hand in his pocket.

With a loud clang, the snap trap closes around his fingers.

Moriarty screams and jerks back his hand. The trap is stuck to it like a mousetrap to a rat. John quickly grabs Moriarty’s other wrist and smacks the gun away, then elbows Moriarty in the face.

“The massage did work,” he grunts, “my arm is very mobile now.”

He punches Moriarty and wrestles him to the ground. Since Moriarty’s good hand is still impaired by the trap, John can easily dodge his return blows. He flips the man over and grabs him in a chokehold.

“How about we test your toy on your cock, mmh?” John asks. “Or does the laser not do precision work?”

“We could use the magnifying aquarium glass,” Sherlock offers.

John giggles. He pulls up Moriarty, and looks around to check for rope, something to tie him up with. Ultimately, he settles for his belt, and secures him near the aquarium, hands restrained around a table leg.

“Right, Sherlock. Let’s get you loose,” John says.  

He runs up to the table, when all of the sudden, the giant laser starts working again.

John looks back, just in time to see Moriarty throw a tiny remote control into the piranhas aquarium.

“What did you do?” John shouts, panicking as the laser beam starts moving slowly up between Sherlock’s legs again, cutting the table in half.

“Get me out of these ropes, John!” Sherlock yells.

John starts to frantically tug at the ropes holding back his feet.

“I don’t really… approve of adult circumcision,” Sherlock says.

Finally, John gets one leg free. On to the other one. He bites the rope - if only he had those iron teeth now - and pulls on it. In the corner of his eye, he watches the beam moving slowly upward.

Two legs free, now. Sherlock screams out in frustration. He curls up like a shrimp, and the beam burns the place where his crotch was, now nearing close to his bum.

John runs to Sherlock’s wrists.

“Probably should have started with the wrists, then I could have helped you,” Sherlock says.

“Stop being a smart-arse or I might just let the laser graze you.”

The beam, however, has nearly reached Sherlock’s bum now. A flash of panic runs through Sherlock’s eyes.

John manages to untie the last rope and drags Sherlock backward off the table, allowing the man to fall on top of him.

They pant. Sherlock clings to him, trembling. They’re safe. They’re safe.

Suddenly, five giant Dwarves barge in, guns at the ready.

John’s stomach drops.

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” the Dwarf in charge says.

John jumps up, quickly extracts the perfume bottle from his waistband and holds it in front of him like a gun, menacing.

The Dwarves laugh loudly, their deep voices rumbling through the chamber. In the background, the dragon roars.  

John glances at Sherlock, who nods. Using this flamethrower is their only chance at ever getting out of here. Even if they all burn together - it will be a privilege, to die by Sherlock’s side.

John pushes the spraying mechanism. Nothing comes out.

“Should have read the manual,” Moriarty mumbles.

John throws him an angry look.

“What?” Moriarty says “I’m a bit tied down. Sarcasm is my only weapon.”

“No need to employ your, eh, deadliest weapon,” one of the Dwarves says, taking off the fake beard. “We’re MI6. We already neutralised the Alices and decided to come here in disguise. However, it seems you have it under control.”

One of the Dwarves walks up to the laser beam and pushes the ‘off’ button. Another one walks up to Moriarty, and cuffs him. “You’re under arrest,” he says, and then adds. “The Queen would like her dick laser back.”

 

***  
  
On the way back to London, Sherlock is eerily quiet.

Sure, it could be because they’re in a helicopter, and he’s enjoying the view. But John doesn’t think his gaze is fixed on anything. He just stares sadly out the window. Every once in a while, he glares at the woman accompanying them.

They’re cramped, the three of them, inside the tiny helicopter space. Sherlock opposite John, and next to John, the woman sits. She looks a bit like Léa Seydoux. On her exposed shoulder, there’s a giant octopus tattoo.

“Genus Hapalochlaena,” John says. She turns to him.

“Correct,” she smiles

“A temporary tattoo,” Sherlock says.

She ignores him, and puts her hand on John’s knee. “I love your knowledge of the animal world.”

John hopes he isn’t blushing. Her fingernails are painted bright red. They creep a little higher.

“Whore,” Sherlock mumbles, more to himself than to anyone. Yet just loud enough.

“What?” John says, but Sherlock turns his head away from them, to stare out the window.

“You heard me,” he says.

The woman withdraws her hand from John’s knee.

“Sherlock,” John says, fuming. “You will apologise to this lady immediately.”

Sherlock glances at him. “I was merely pointing out a fact.”

“I swear to god… You won’t treat a lady this way.”

“She can be a lady and a whore,” he says. “She’s at least one.”

John crosses the small space to sit next to Sherlock, and turns his friend’s face towards him.

“Sherlock! What’s the hell’s got into you?” he says angrily.

He swallows. He sees something cross Sherlock’s eyes - a hint of fear, immediately replaced by a mask of indifference.

“I envy your tiny brain, John. This woman is clearly a prostitute. She’s not MI6 - her nail polish and roots should tell you as much. Her perfume’s cheap, her underwear is not. The octopussy on her shoulder is a nice touch, though. Well done, Mycroft.”

“M… Mycroft?”

“She’s Mycroft’s gift for you, John.”

Sherlock’s eyes are cold. He tries to turn away his face, but John stops him with his hand. “A gift for me?”

“Yes. For saving my life, I assume. His idea of wrapping up a Bond case, I suppose - sex with a Bond girl,” he says, bitterly.

John blinks. Mycroft is… gifting him a human being? That smug son-of-a…

“So go on, go enjoy her,” Sherlock spits. "Your... escort back to London."

John awkwardly glances at the woman. She blinks back owlishly, then manages a flirty wink.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John says. He sighs. Beneath them, the English countryside is rolling by. He sincerely wishes for a Union Jack parachute right now, if only he didn’t have to sit here with Sherlock and his brother’s whore.

Sherlock looks at him with questioning eyes. God, he is beautiful. His white shirt is unbuttoned a little too far, exposing his lean neck. His waistcoat fits his shoulders beautifully. His wrists are red from struggling against the ropes. John takes one of Sherlock’s hands, and softly traces the scrapes.

John swallows. “I’m a big fan of James Bond.”

Sherlock furrows his brows. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” John says. “I’m a fan. Of James Bond.”

Sherlock stares at him in confusion, silently.

Christ. The bravery of the soldier. John releases Sherlock’s hand. “Not the… Bond girls,” he says, and he averts his eyes. “Not so much.”

Sherlock looks at his fingers. “I suppose those Bond girls are a little… sexist.”

John exhales. “No.”

“No?”

“No, well, yes. But. I want… James Bond.”

Carefully, he looks up, locks eyes with Sherlock. The detective’s face looks frightened, shocked.

“I want the tall dark hero,” John continues. “I want the guy who wears the tight tuxedo, the guy who faces off with criminals in a casino. The guy throwing punches on the moving train. The guy who has witty retorts for the bad guys. The guy who uses a zipline to fearlessly fall from a balcony.”

Sherlock blinks quickly.

“That massage oil…” John continues. He can’t stop. “You must have felt… You must have! And this whole birthday charade… Don’t tell me..."

Sherlock doesn’t move. There isn’t a single indication that he has any clue what John is talking about.

“Christ. Nevermind,” John says.

He rubs his neck, and moves to sit back next to the prostitute, who’s staring at them utterly dumbfounded.

But Sherlock stops him. “John.”

John bounces back, next to Sherlock. But instead of talking, Sherlock stares at him intensely, at his face, down to his bloody Star Wars shirt, back to his neck, to his -

oh lord -

lips.

Sherlock leans forward. If it wasn’t for the shaky helicopter, John’s own shaking would be entirely clear. Now he remains the illusion of cool as he leans into it, longing to meet Sherlock halfway. The man closes his eyes, lips trembling.

_Deng deng deng deng - deng deng_

They freeze.

“Turn off your bloody phone, John,” Sherlock mutters.

John fumbles blindly into the Dalmatians rucksack to quickly turn it off, never allowing his eyes to leave Sherlock’s face, who sits unmoving, eyes shut.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the prostitute says. She scratches the temporary tattoo, a bit pouty.

John pulls Sherlock closer by his waistcoat, and finally, their lips touch. Sherlock moans lightly against him, as if the kiss still came as a surprise, but then he quickly recovers and starts moving his lips. John’s heart leaps. This man. This man dressed as a British spy just to please him. Is now kissing him. With soft lips. With hard passion.

Sherlock reaches his hands up to John’s shoulders. Now it’s John’s turn to moan, remembering Sherlock’s electric touch the night before. Encouraged by this, Sherlock starts tracing up and down John’s chest, then reaches around and over his back, picking up speed, enclosing him with desperate arms.  

“Jesus Sherlock,” John pants. “You’re like an octopus.”

“Well, trying to keep with the theme and all that,” Sherlock smiles against his lips.

“Good,” John says. He softly licks Sherlock’s upper lip, like a question. Sherlock opens his mouth and suddenly, their tongues meet. Holy shit. It’s nearly too much - it’s nearly indecent - and John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and almost _wails_.  

Beneath them, the Gherkin comes into view. John can relate to it.

“Let’s go home,” John breathes, pulling back. “I’m recruiting you for my double O program.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank to you to everyone who's been encouraging me, sharing, laughing, beta'ing, or just quietly reading... I hope you enjoyed this little story, I worked very hard on it. 
> 
> It might take me a while longer to reply to comments today, because I'll be at work. But know that they are the bright lights of my existence. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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